


Going Green

by MurdersintheMorgue



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Lots of Drugs, Multi, also most people are straight, and swearing!!!, bare with me here, i was so stoned, im still working on it, lolol straight people, right warning for like drugs, sorry that it sucks lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurdersintheMorgue/pseuds/MurdersintheMorgue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cosette really likes overdosing on cough syrup, Grantaire's a little too fond of acid for his own good, Bahorel and Jehan are in a perpetual high and Combeferre has really wicked awesome tats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Green

Bahorel suck in a sharp breath between his teeth, holding it with ease and blowing out towards the sky. Faint smoke trailed from his mouth, and he smiled up at it, feeling heavy and weightless all at once.   
He passed the joint to Jehan, seated beside him, leaning with his elbows on his knees, dredlocks long and hanging in his face.   
"Jesus dude." Bahorel says after a few coughs, laughing slightly, "That is some good shit."  
Jehan smiles down at the burning thing between his fingers, smoke trailing from his nostrils.   
"I know right." The poet responds, passing the joint back to Bahorel. His arm felt like lead, moving through water, and like time had slowed down.   
"Man, man life is just.." Bahorel took another hit, shaking his head and waving his hand as though fishing for the right words as he exhaled. "Life is so fucking, it's so fucking weird y'know?"  
"You have quite the way with words, my friend." Jehan laughs, and Bahorel shoves his friend with a hand that practically covered the small man's entire shoulder.   
"Not everyone is talented as you are, oh master of language." The large man laughed, rubbing a hand through his blonde curls, "It's just like, I dunno, I dunno how to explain it. Recently I've been getting this feeling, y'know? That something else is going on. Like there's a whole another life going on somewhere. Like, like the person in that life, it's me, but at the same time like, it's not me. Y'know?"  
"Deep." Jehan said tonelessly, blinking slowly as the orange glow lit up his face. Bahorel took a moment to take in the other man's profile, the small nose, the daunt cheeks, the sharp chin.   
Jehan relished in the burn at the back of his throat, coughing slightly as he exhaled. The joint burned his finger, and he dropped in clumsily, in shock.   
"Dude.." Bahorel whined as the embers dulled to black. Jehan began to giggle, cover his mouth and scrunching up his face into an almost ugly grin.   
"Dude, what just happened." The poet whispered, his tone held back and confused but amused and happy all at once. Bahorel began to laugh quietly as well, trying to contain himself but releasing childish giggles despite his efforts.   
"I dunno dude, like where the fuck are we."  
"Man you were totally going off on like a real deep tangent there."  
"Dude.. I know.."  
They sat staring off into the night for what felt like hours.   
Two minutes passed.   
"Man, you wanna get some fries or something?"  
"Jesus, fuck, that sounds like an absolutely splendid idea."

 

 

The diner always had three people in it at this hour.   
In the corner sat a tall young man with honey colored hair. He pours over papers every night. Nobody who works the nightshift can actually tell how old he is, or what exactly it was he's always pouring over, but he pays for all of his coffee refills and leaves quite the generous tip, so none of them really care.   
At the bar always sits a boy about fifteen or so, with dirty hair and clothes, and always asks for more than he can pay. He shows up at around quarter past, eats a breakfast meal of some sorts, and darts out the door with all he had to offer next to his plate. Nobody says anything about the way the boy limps, or how he always seems to be slightly injured, slightly sickly. It was none of their business. But they never turn him away, and they never scold him for the missing dollar or so from the previous meal.   
Finally in the back sits a girl with yellow curls and watery blue eyes. She always orders black coffee and ice cream, and stays for hours, staring into space while swaying to presumably some sort of music coming from large head phones that seemed much too large for her small doll like face. With long lashes and pink cheeks, the boys doted on her all they could.   
But she never actually eats her ice cream, and never actually finishes her coffee, just sips at it daintily with small hands with pastel colored nails. 

Marius loved working the night shift. The quiet of night, the silence of the diner. He liked being able to play the music he wanted to hear, being able to whistle as he worked, to slack off with Courfeyrac in the back when the girl stared into space and the man poured over papers and the boy ate a little too quietly.   
"I know him, you know." Courfeyrac had said one night as they sat under the bar, sharing the ice cream the girl in the corner didn't finish.   
"Who?" Marius mumbled, licking at his spoon.   
"The guy who's always in the corner. I know him. He's a friend of Combeferre's. You remember Combeferre?"  
"The guy with the wicked tats?"  
Courfeyrac had laughed, "The guy with the wicked tats. They're like, hardcore activists or some shit. Trying to change the world and all that."  
"Whaddya think he's reading all the time though?"  
The tall man shook his head, tight curls moving as he blinked, "Beats me." 

This night in particular, Marius had been flicking through the jukebox, trying to locate Stayin' Alive because he knew Courfeyrac fucking hated that song, when the bell rang and two figures lumbered in. Marius turned and chuckled at the sight of them.   
"Well shit, if it isn't fuckin' Hemmingway and Banksy. Yo 'Rac, it's the green brothers!"   
Courfeyrac stuck his head out of the kitchen.   
"Well shit."  
"Fellas, please." Jehan held up his hands, "I know we're pretty great, you don't have to rub it in."  
Bahorel giggled next to the poet, hand clasped around his mouth, fingers digging into cheeks. He swayed slightly where he stood.   
"You idiots save any for us or what?" Courfeyrac asked, leaning forward with his hands hanging to the sides of the door, and back again.   
"Ye-hya dude, check this shit out, it's awesome." Bahorel drawled as he stumbled towards the counter. He looked down at the boy and patted his blonde head. The kid flinched violently away, and Bahorel shrugged, turning back to his friends. Jehan stood still for a moment, swayed slightly, and finally joined the large man at the bar.   
"You want some pie? This guy rushed out without taking a bite." Marius placed a large blueberry pie piece in front of the two men, and Bahorel looked as though god had presented himself before him.   
Jehan sighed and slipped a little baggie out of his hoodie pocket, sliding it across the table to the redhead.   
"Careful with this though, yeah?"  
"Shit man, yeah. Yo 'Rac, Imma hotbox the ice room. You game?"  
"Fuck yeah man." Courfeyrac threw his hat in a fit of excitement, quickly scurrying after his lanky friend.   
Bahorel looked around as he and Jehan dug into the pie piece.   
"Quiet night." The large man muttered, watching as the man in the corner scratched something out and cursed.   
The man's right hand had scabs on the knuckles, and his white shirt looked a little blood stained.   
"'S always quiet here man." Jehan drawled, moving slowly, very slowly, to rest his head on his arms, staring at the boy sitting next to them.   
The boy stared right back, with big watery eyes and thin lips.   
Jehan nodded at the kid. The kid nodded back, placing some money on the counter and leaving quickly out the door, the bell tinkling, breaking the silence for a moment.   
"You think we can smoke in here?" Bahorel asked suddenly, tapping at his cigarette box, blinking down at Jehan, who had scrunched up his face.   
"No way dude, we're living in the 21st century dude. You can't smoke fucking anywhere."  
Bahorel blinked slowly, then nodded, sliding the box away.   
"You're right. Why the hell are cigarettes legal, but weed isn't?"  
"Questions of reason, my man. It's all the government." Jehan caught the gaze of the blonde girl in the corner.   
They stared at each other for a moment.   
"Hold on one sec." Jehan muttered finally, sliding from the spinny stool and lumbering over towards the girl in the booth.   
Bahorel watched him, jumping as Marius joined his side in what seemed like an instant.   
"Dude, no, I've been watching her for weeks." The freckled man cried quietly.  
The two men watched as Jehan slid into the booth across from the girl, not saying anything.   
"Gentleman, we've been granted a great gift." Courfeyrac whispers from where he had crawled to after emerging from the ice box, "The master in his own game."  
Jehan still hadn't said anything, the two beautiful people just quietly staring at one another.   
"What're we watching?"  
The three men jumped, all turning to find the man from the corner standing behind them, holding an empty coffee cup. He waved it at their surprised expressions. The blonde man had never spoken before aside to order his coffee.   
"Prouvaire's the master." Courfeyrac explained as the three turned back to watch the magic happen.   
Jehan was now leaning forward, and the girl's cheeks had reddened slightly. Both had yet to speak.   
"Master of what?" The man asked, placing the cup on the counter and pushing it towards Marius. The red head turned to get the coffee pitcher.   
"Getting laid." Bahorel answered flatly as Jehan kissed the girl.   
She kissed back enthusiastically.   
"There goes my ride." Bahorel said sadly.   
"God damn it!" Marius cried as he handed the blonde man his coffee.   
"I'll drive you home dude." Courfeyrac said, bumping his shoulder with Bahorel's. The bigger man smiled in gratitude.   
"Impressive." The blonde man deadpans. The three men look at him again.   
"Enjolras." The man holds out his hand. Marius takes it after a period of awkward silence, shaking it quickly and nervously.   
"Marius. Bahorel, Courfeyrac." He points to each as they were named. Courfeyrac waved, Bahorel nodded. Enjolras nodded back.   
"Hey uh, my friend's having this like, art thing. You guys should go. With me. Because I was supposed to bring new people."   
Bahorel blinks, glancing over at his friends. They look at each other for a period of too long time, and Bahorel feels like his head might roll off his neck.   
"It's not like, a show. It's like, a bunch of people are gonna throw paint. I'm bringing brownies."  
"Are these special brownies?" Courfeyrac dictates carefully and slowly.   
"Yes."  
"We're in."

 

Jehan took his tongue out of the blonde girl's throat to affirm his friends he and she would be joining them in this adventure.   
They made out in the back of the car the entire way, Enjolras giving very bad, very choppy directions, and Bahorel being awkwardly squished between the squirming bodies and Marius's very angry, very tense, and very stoned body.   
"Fuckin' bullshit man." Marius muttered under his breath, and Bahorel blew air out of his mouth, feeling his neck hurt slightly from the way it was hunched so his head wouldn't hit the ceiling of the car.   
"Too big for this car." He muttered to himself.  
"I'm so fucking pissed right now." Marius responded with, not really hearing what his friend had just said, but registering something had been said, and that it wasn't in a happy tone. 

 

 

The house was a gross mint green color. The walls were all white inside, covered in different paint splatters, some painted into art, some spray painted on when someone got a little too excited and was tripping a little too hard. The house was a group house, Feuilly let anyone who asked live there. Combeferre and Enjolras had been out of places to crash, and Feuilly had offered his services at their time of need. The dirty thing quickly became home for the three students, and they grew to be a family of three.  
The group painting thing had been Combeferre's idea. Feuilly was always complaining about how Enjolras and Combeferre never got out, never got to meet his super cool art student friends, never got to party with them and get just how fun everyone can be.   
Enjolras had offered to make the brownies, and everyone got excited.   
Feuilly had eaten one of said brownies earlier, and was now laying on the ratty old couch that had been lifted from some suburban lawn on the other side of town. He could swear he was seeing the music they were blasting from large speakers curtsy of the lovely Eponine, who worked as a dj every Friday night and had all kinds of weird ass music shit.   
Grantaire sat on the floor next to his friend, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, burning quickly as the dark haired man stared off out the window with a fascinated expression.   
"Fuckin' idiots!" Eponine was yelling, dark hair flipping into her face and she pushed it out almost violently, "You're both terrible hosts. You don't get high before hosting a party! You get high during the party. Jesus chr-" she broke off into muttering in Spanish, running her hand through her hair angrily. Musichetta went to place a hand on the small of her friend's back, and Eponine quieted down for a moment.   
"We could catch up to them." Musichetta purred, her dark fingers tapping absently at the presence beneath them. Eponine smiled gleefully at the other girl, who held up a large bubbler.   
They tumbled together to the shower, pulling the curtain and lighting up. 

 

Bossuet couldn't lift his eyelids up. Like, they were permanently at half mast. He was never going to lift them again.  
"Bossuet, we gotta go to Feuilly's thing. We're gonna be late."  
The dark man shook his head slowly against his pillow, blinking lazily up at the glow in the dark stars painted above their bed.   
"Bossuet, I promised Combeferre. Please?"   
"Dun' wana.." Bossuet mumbled, vision swimming.   
Joly's long face appeared, hiding the glow in the dark stars. Bossuet frowned.   
"Please?" He repeated, face begging. Bossuet heaved a long sigh, and started, very reluctantly, to sit up.   
Joly watched patiently as his lover finally got to his feet, standing at his towering height, blinking slowly down at Joly.   
"Thank you." The brunette sang, pushing thin hair out of his face, "Now let's go."


End file.
